Fists, Drinks, and the Birth of an American Madman
by Joyeuse
Summary: When one of the world's smartest men learns to fight in an underground super-powered fighting ring, does anyone stand a chance? No previous knowledge of SIWBI required; it's all explained in the text.
1. Chapter 1

It's moments like these, when you're fighting a Chernobyl survivor, that you really come to question your life's direction. I've only been in Bangkok's underground super-powered fighting ring for a month, and already I've been almost bitten, broken, and beaten to death. Moments like these, and I can't help wondering, "Why am I here?"

But that's not the most urgent question at hand. Instead, I'm trying to decide exactly how to defeat a man who did more than just live through Chernobyl: he took his power from it. Essentially, I have to outclass one of the greatest nuclear disasters in mankind's history. It's difficult to be more powerful than a nuclear explosion-doable, but difficult, and not currently within my means-so how can I hope to beat this guy? It shouldn't be possible. It couldn't be possible. Then again, I've often used my mind to defy the realm of possibility.

That's why they call me Smartacus.

I take a good look at my opponent. He's around 250 pounds, big for a civilian, but not much in the world of super powers. If he was just some bodybuilder, I'd have him down in ten seconds flat. But he's more than that. He's a nuclear man. A Superman. A pale, blue aura radiates off his skin. I pay particular attention to his feet. He's not wearing any shoes, and each time he takes a step, the aura surrounding his toes seems to grow brighter for a moment.

We're not even technically fighting in a ring. It's just a 's a chalk line dividing us and the spectators, which indicates that I'm working in a square that has an area of 20 feet. Mattress pads line the three walls that my square touches. Because nothing cushions a super-strong punch better than a cloth-covered bundle of cotton and springs. I suppose it's the thought that counts.

I think back to the one conversation I had with my sparring partner two weeks ago, before we even knew we'd be fighting each other. We were standing outside the building where a few matches had just taken place. We'd each won our respective fights, but he was looking worn down.

"You alright?" I asked. It felt weird even then. But somehow, as an outcast among outcasts, I knew it was right.

"Yeah," he said, "Tired."

I fell silent. Admittedly, it wasn't much of a conversation. But that wasn't the important part. Even though I stopped talking to him, I didn't stop looking. I couldn't help but notice that when he was fighting, he only had a loincloth on. In other situations, he dressed in as much clothing as possible, right down to long sleeves and gloves. And if you looked closely enough, there was a thin sheet of lead surrounding the inside of his collar. Probably lined the rest of his clothing, as well. Was he avoiding contact with something? Light? Cloth? People?

I realize I've wasted three-quarters of a second thinking all of this through when he moves his left arm back for a punch. I'm not worried, because I can move more quickly than he can, but I still have to come up with a plan, fast. Clearly, I can't just punch him. It's not that he's giving off lethal amounts of radiation—it'd probably take years of having sex for a nuclear-powered individual to really increase someone's risk of getting cancer, and I don't plan on getting that close or sticking around for that long—but it'd still hurt.

I duck and his swing misses its mark. I have to make a move, quickly. I already feel the spectators getting bored, waiting for Smartacus to stop being so cautious and start hitting people. The lights in this room are beginning to make me sweat, yet the floor feels cold against my feet.

So I punch him in the abdomen. He backs up for a second, because I don't throw light-weight punches. But my hand is stinging. I move my fingers around a bit, making sure I don't need to amputate anything. I think I'm safe, but I probably shouldn't try doing that again. Why does irrationality always seems like such a good idea, under bright lights?

He snarls, taking a step closer, getting ready for another punch. I take a step back. He takes a step forward. Once again, I take a step back. He has a confused look on his face, and I can't help but crack a smile.

"They call you Chernocalypse, right?" I ask, amused by the politically sensitive names of underground fighters.

"Shut up and fight," he says, going for an undercut punch to the stomach, which I manage to sidestep.

"I was just thinking, if you're the apocalypse, why hasn't the world changed? I know the Soviets aren't known for their reliable products, but are even their apocalypses defective?"

My back is up against one of the mattress cushions, and Chernocalypse is looking none too happy. He throws a massive punch with his right hand, which I duck out of the way of. It hits the mattress, though, and I hear for a moment a vaguely electrical, crackling noise. My theory is confirmed. Every time Chernocalypse touches something, a tiny nuclear reaction occurs. The charged particles of the reaction interact with the air around him, making it turn blue. This is why his punches sting so badly—he's basically assaulting you with radiation—but nuclear reactions aren't that easy. They must drain massive amounts of energy.

"You dare mock my homeland, my people, my tragedy?" Chernocalypse apparently doesn't like Soviet jokes. Who would've thought? I slip to his right and begin to giggle. He grunts, throwing two punches, one right after the other, one per hand. I get out of the way of the right, a clean dodge. But his left grazes my rib cage. That sizzling sensation I feel probably isn't a good sign. "You're just a pathetic lackey of the Capitalist system."

"Not sure if you noticed, but you aren't exactly supporting the Homeland here yourself."

He takes a step back. I almost want to laugh at how obviously he telegraphs himself, but decide not to point out that particular weakness. Instead, I allow him to charge at me. I end up leapfrogging over him, allowing him to thrust himself headlong into another mattress.

Both of my hands are stinging at this point. But I have to finish the fight through to the end. So I take Chernocalypse by both of his shoulders and allow him to release all of his energy onto the mattress. My hands are burning as he struggles to get free. His blue aura radiates, practically blinding me. Eventually, the light grows weak and I let him go. He slumps to the floor.

I win.


	2. Chapter 2

"So there we were-me, Mr. Mystic, and good ol' Merchant Marine-not getting in anyone's way and not wanting to cause any trouble. We were just at the bar tryin' to get a few drinks. So what do they do? They call us a bunch o' bezarks! Well, me and old Mystie mighta forgiven 'em, but there's one thing you don't call Merchant Marine, and that's a bezark!"

"There he was, 5'5", stocky but not intimidatin' in the least. And he was looking at these three beasts. I would call 'em men but that just wouldn't be accurate, y'see? Mystie was trying to explain how they were a gang of Rakshasas, Indian cannibalistic spirits, and we shouldn't fight with 'em while we were on their home ground. I believed it. I saw how each of 'em had long fangs. Their nails were more like claws. And they had these wild red eyes, which seemed to complement their bright red hair. Forgive me for sayin' so, but these beasts looked like they were from Hell. Still, Merchant Marine was having none of it. He didn't care if they was men or beasts or Satan himself. He yelled, 'My fists'll hurt you a helluva lot more than your tongues'll hurt me!'"

"And, well, he wasn't just sayin' that for show. His fists lit up with electricity, like they always do when he got to use his powers, and he socked one of those beasts real good, right in the jaw. The beast was knocked back, as was to be expected, 'cause Merchant Marine don't punch like your momma. Mystie and I? Well, just 'cause we didn't start it didn't mean we weren't about to get left out of all the fun. Mystie goes-all weird-like as is normal for him-and says to one of the bastards, 'Your hands are bound behind your back.' Well, apparently the powers of suggestion are more powerful than I thought, 'cause just like that the beast's hands were behind his back. Mystie then proceeded to beat the ever-lovin' shit outta the beast. Stomped on his foot and elbowed him in the gut."

"Me? I didn't really have too much trouble with my guy. My metal skin means it isn't just any old toughie-from-Hell that can take me down. The thing ran forward and swiped me with one of its claws, but like I said. Metal skin. The scratch didn't hurt, so I got my beast in a clinch. I held him and we were both struggling to get the upper-hand. It was particularly difficult given the fact that he was 6'4. But eventually I managed to slam his head against the bar and smash an empty rum bottle against his head for good measure."

"Fascinating," I say, and I mean it. Sitting at The Red Fist, Bangkok's premier super-powered bar, I'm listening to Argonaut tell me all the stories he's accumulated over the years, quite a few of which involve him on a ship with Merchant Marine. Which leads to the inevitable question, "How did you end up here, anyway? It sounds like you were happy sailing with Merchant Marine."

"Yeah, well. All things gotta end. And I felt weird aft-"

You'd be surprised how quickly a conversation stops, once a bug pukes. To be fair, it isn't really a bug puking. It's more a man, with the head of a bug. For weeks now, I've been thinking of what to call him. Most people have given him the name "Insecticide," but that seems too obvious. In my head, I'm already calling him, "Kafka's Sycophant," but somehow, I don't think the name will catch on. And I don't think he'll like it, if he understands what it means. My mattress pad lies right next to his couch, and every morning when I wake up, he terrifies me, so maybe I should call him "Morning Terror." Or maybe that's too personal. I shake my head, giving up on the name for now.

Whatever you call him, seeing Kafka's Sycophant puking is not a pretty sight. It's clearly time to leave, so I look at Argonaut and say, "I should probably go. You can tell me about your friend later."

So the four roommates assemble. Pharaoh, with his hulking physique and massive hammer, doesn't really look phased. That said, nothing ever seems to phase him-undoubtedly a mark of his mystic invulnerability. Shylock looks a bit more concerned, as he carries Kafka off, but it's really Kafka who looks the worst for wear. We exit the bar.

Shylock looks at Kafka and asks, "Are you alright? Should we call a cab?"

Kafka hiccups for a moment and shakes his head, "Doin' great," he says, "Think that Bruce Lee-knockoff fucked me up more than I'd realized."

He pukes, again. Shylock grabs him by the shoulder, propping him up. Somehow, even though he has the face of a bug, he looks worn down. He's sagging in Shylock's arms. He's been in the Bangkok fighting scene for three years. Could I last that long?

Of course I could last that long. I'm Smartacus, dammit. But would I want to?

Shylock hails a taxi, and we all squeeze in. It's difficult-especially given Pharaoh's less-than-miniscule size-but we manage to do so. Unfortunately, I'm squished between Pharaoh and Shylock, which means I'm treated to the wonderful smell of a vomiting drunkard. I look up at the cab driver, who's giving us all a somewhat dirty look. He'd probably say something, but the wise man's bet probably involves not provoking Pharaoh.

Shylock gives the driver our address, and the taxi jostles us all forward for a moment. Kafka groans, and I turn towards Pharaoh, if only to avoid Kafka's puke-inducing breath. I look at him-this behemoth sitting right next to me, his biggest struggle right now simply trying to fit into a taxi-and I wonder where all his power come from. I know that, in a sense, it comes from his hammer, which even now sits in his lap, his grip tightly woven around it. But still, what powers the hammer?

It doesn't look like any alien artifact I've ever encountered, though only Stormcloud knows much of anything about the extra-terrestrial element, so that's still an option. There is no way it was done by simple earthly mechanics, unless the muscles are natural. Perhaps he's a super-strong mutant, and the hammer is just a prop?

Curiosity drives me forward, as I ask, "How'd you get the hammer?"

He smiles, looking down at me. A part of me wonders if this is the first time he's ever noticed me, that Lilliputian genius, the dwarf who lives with him all this time. "This?" he asks, looking at his hammer, as if I could have been referring to anything else, "I got it from Ra."

"Yeah, you got it from Ra, but how does it work?" I ask, hoping he's not one of those people. Pleading, with all my heart, that he has a good answer.

"How else? Magic." Shit. He's one of those people. I end the conversation right there, looking at the angered taxi-driver in front of me. Kafka dry-heaves, and I sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing is more powerful than the origin story. Fists of steel, sonic scream, invisibility: they're all nice, but they've got nothing on a good, proper origin. Take an autistic rich boy, for example. When he's ten, or some equally impressionable age, a gangster guns down his brother and sister. He gets that fire in his stomach compelling him to move forward, to spend every moment improving his intellect, his physique, so that he can take down the underworld he has so grown to hate. That's how you get someone like Blackwolf: a dash of circumstance fueling a massive amount of training.

Take away the death scene, the motivation? The hero falls apart. All you have is an autistic boy. (I suppose you can argue that's just what most super heroes are, at the heart of it. But I digress...) However, it isn't the hero I'm concerned with. Instead, I'm pondering what makes a villain. Or rather, I'm listening.

"I didn't want powers, to tell you the truth. Things like that, those were for the show-offs, y'know? It was for the people who weren't happy just being human. But I _was _happy. Really, I was more than just happy_._ I _**loved**_ being part of the crowd." Shylock and I are standing on our porch, part of an apartment which we share with two other super-powered fighters, looking out on what is usually a crowded Bangkok street. Seeing as how it's 4:00 in the morning, the traffic has slowed down considerably, but there are still more people than you'd expect, trudging their way through life. Looking at them, I can't help but wonder why they'd be out so late. Where are they going?

"I was okay just being the good little boy who kept his head down, followed the rules. That was how life worked, or so I thought. If you did well in school, if you made your mother happy, all would be good. That's when the bomb hit. The damn Palestinians, they bombed my father's workplace. So he died." Here Shylock takes another swig of his beer. It's becoming clearer and clearer to me as the minutes pass that I shouldn't be listening to him. Like I said, these origin stories have power. He should tell me when he's sober, when he feels he's known me enough. But there's something so magnetic about his passion, I can't stop him.

"And there I was. Two younger sisters and a mother to take care of. You've gotta understand. When you're the man of the family, and you're only just about to turn eighteen, you don't have a helluva lot of options. Sure, I could have found some low-paying job. Maybe I could have hustled a little on the street. But where was the honor in that? Where was the pride? Joining the military? There was pride in that, I guess. Just not enough money. Half the population got out of conscription, one way or another, but that wasn't what was expected from a good little Jewish boy. I was in Israel, I was healthy and we were at war. So when I turned eighteen, I did something more than just join the military. I joined their Super Soldier program. And y'know what I got? Super powers. In the end, the damned powers got me everything I'd wanted. I served my country. Got a bigger paycheck, which meant my family didn't just survive, it thrived. My sisters married, had big families. Mother became a socialite. And I like to think a lot of that happened because of me."

"So yeah, sure. My family got a great deal. But what about my future? They put me on the operating table. Have no idea what they did, but I'm pretty sure it involved fucking with my brain. Guess it doesn't really matter. They said they would never tell me and they never have. All I know is, when I woke up, the laws of gravity became an option. Suddenly, I was a gravity-manipulator. Suddenly, I was a superhero."

"They got a kick out of that. I became one of the stars of the Six-Day War. There I was, an eighteen year old boy, and I was going out into the front lines and killing people. And I know it only lasted six days. Six days!" here he gives out a big guffaw, "But it felt like a whole lifetime to me. Y'know I killed 384 people, in less than a week? Wasn't too difficult. 200 of 'em were killed just 'cause I toppled one building. Made the ceiling too heavy, and then wham bam, thank you ma'am." The story pauses for a moment so the rest of his beer can become intimately acquainted with his gullet.

"Six days. One of the resolutions of the cease-fire was that people-monsters-like me wouldn't be allowed back on the battlefield. There the government was, with a group of people they'd spent billions of dollars on. But they weren't allowed to use us. After fucking with our very souls, twisting us inside out, they abandoned us. Gave me a nice pension, sure. But then they told me I'd have to go back to normal society."

"Tried it for two weeks. Didn't work. Got together all my assets and gave them to my family, made sure they had enough to live on. Then, when I was satisfied, hired some illusionist to make it look like I'd killed myself. He did the job well, so I went on a crime spree. What else was I supposed to do? They'd outlawed my powers, so I became an outlaw. Created a costume, robbed some banks. Ran around all over the world. Ended up fighting Go-Man and escaping more times than I had any right to."

He laughs, and for a moment I'm frightened. He's still not forty, but all the fighting has aged him. He's got streaks of gray in his hair, and he's clearly a broken man. He's leaning over the balcony, laughing his head off, looking like he's about to plunge into the street, "Super heroes are morons. Here I was, a guy with the power to manipulate gravity. So who comes after me? A super-speedster!" His laughter is growing in intensity, "I'd make him so heavy, he couldn't move. Then I'd run away. Same thing happened every time. Sure, sometimes he'd spoil my plans, sometimes he wouldn't. But he'd never catch me."

He sighs and I'm relieved. He's calming down. I see him staring at all those people down there. "My family hasn't been hungry for years. Do you ever wonder why we do this? Why we keep on hitting each other, just to please a few brain-dead jerks?" My hands are still stinging from yesterday's fight.

"Every day," I tell him.


	4. Chapter 4

_-I AM A CROCODILE DREAMING_

_-I AM A SNAKE DREAMING_

_-I AM A MAN DREAMING_

"RED FIST," the sign says, in bright, disarming, letters. The text is accompanied by an image of a red, glowing fist, with protruding spikes. Kafka, Shylock, and I enter the bar.

"You sure you're ready for the fight?" Shylock asks, "Three days ago you could barely stand, much less take a hit."

"I'll be fine," Kafka says, "I'm like a cockroach, y'know? Regeneration's my specialty, my power. Recuperatin' is what I do best."

"Other than passing out," I mutter.

"Hey, to my defense, I had two litres of alcohol."

"That's not to your defense," I say, walking past the bar patrons. It amazes me, every time I look around. This time, I see a samurai sitting at the bar, carefully sipping his drink, his eyes attuned to every other patron, every possible danger. I see Colony, the man who they say can take both your powers and your soul. I haven't seen him in action-rather keep it that way. And there's Argonaut, who has the attention of many, as he tells yet another wild tale of his seafaring escapades.

We descend into the basement, step by step, and I see the mattresses once again line the walls. We enter the arena. The damn lights shine down on me, and I know it's time for another rumble. This time, a team match. 3 v. 3. On my right is gravitational mastermind Shylock. On my left is the ever-regenerating, not-quite-so-masterly-minded Kafka.

I look at our competition. Three Australian pygmies. I've learned over the years not to underestimate the competition, but _pygmies_? Apparently the biggest challenge today was getting out of bed.

Before I know it, the fight has begun. The three pygmies, chanting, transform into something wholly different. One man turns into a bright, multi-colored snake. The reds, yellows and oranges flit before my eyes, practically leaving me in a daze. Another man turns into a crocodile which looks to span about ten feet. The third man doesn't seem to transform into much of anything, but his eyes glow with a bright, white vengeance.

The ten foot crocodile comes charging at me, and suddenly I'm feeling less confident. I side-step his jaws, only to get whacked with his tail. Catapulted onto one of the mattresses buffering me and a concrete wall, I'm also feeling slightly more thankful for whatever cushioning I can get.

The crocodile chuckles, and I swear I can see a smarmy self-satisfaction spread across his grin. Angry, I charge at him. The tail swings at me, but this time I grab it. He proceeds to hoist me off the ground, and smash me back into it.

Feeling the wind knocked out of me, I can still hear Shylock yell over the din of the pygmies' omnipresent chanting.

Letting go of the crocodile's tail, I don't have any time to consider Shylock's plight. Instead, I watch as the crocodile tail flies back towards me. I roll out of the way, allowing the tail to miss its mark. And instead of giving it another chance, I grab on tight to the crocodile's jaw. There is a moment of wrestling. The crocodile flips over on its back and I feel the weight of its slimy scales pressing against my chest. The crocodile's thick armor seems insurmountable for a moment, but then I realize it's a final effort to make me let go.

Its chanting has stopped, and I watch it transform once again. Its strange feeling the crocodile transform back into a human. I don't have the biological insight to explain it-to explain how the very molecules of this crocodile I'm holding turn back into a human-but I'm suddenly much more interested to learn. Holding the crocodile during transformation is much like holding wet clay while it's somehow being sculpted, as if through a mind of its own.

I let go. Bolting upwards, I now see that there is no longer a crocodile before me, but a man-one of the Australian pygmies. I punch him in the face, and that seems to settle the matter.

Unfortunately, as I turn around to survey the arena, I notice that Kafka's sprawled across the floor, defeated. Which might explain why there's a giant, kaleidoscopic serpent whizzing in my direction.

I move to dodge, but it's too late. The snake is already upon me, wrapping itself around me. Cool blues mix with hot reds. A flamingo pink crashes into an alluring purple. And even as I feel the breath leaving my lungs, not so quick to come back, I feel as though I'm in the middle of a transcendent experience. There's something so soothing about the damn colors.

And that's when it happens. I feel myself getting lifted up off the ground. I feel as though I'm floating in a multi-colored cloud-soaring through a never-ending rainbow. I push to get free and the snake, probably surprised to be floating in the air, acquiesces. It's a simple matter of climbing up the serpent's back and grabbing its jaw. It flails in an attempt to get free, but much like the crocodile, is powerless to stop me. Its chanting over, the snake turns back into a pygmie.

I look over at Shylock and see both his face and body contorted. Whatever the last pygmie is doing to him must be causing immense pain. After a second, he drops to the ground. Of course, when the gravity manipulator's down for the count, gravity once again exerts its force. Thus the pygmie and I both fall to the floor. On the bright side, I don't have to punch him, as the fall seems to have knocked him out.

Then those crackling white eyes of the last pygmie turn towards me. In that split-second before I know what's going to hit me, my spine shivers. And that's when the flood of images stream in. I feel the pygmie swimming through my past-mining my memories for the most painful moments, the ones that I try not to think about.

I'm in sixth grade. My sweaty hands grasp the lunch tray. I know today can be a good day, but only if I don't interact with the kids around me. I hear the kids mumbling, rambling, _chanting_ all their inane, tired conversations. The girls discuss gossip. The boys talk about brawling. But none of that matters. I think about Isaac Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics, and wonder how difficult it would be to graft them onto a human being, through a neurological implant, perhaps...

The tray slips out of my hands and crashes to the floor. Everywhere I see eyes pinned upon me. The boys are laughing, the girls roll their eyes. There's nowhere to hide. I can't think of any way to alleviate the situation. Why are my cheeks wet?

I'm a junior in college, and finally the fools recognize me. Finally, they see where my life has been headed all along. The Zeta Beam. At the time, I didn't realize was it was. I didn't realize that it's actually an entirely different dimension, where the rules of reality have an uncanny spin. For now, in my thought process, Zeta beams are just radiation.

Beautiful, transcendent radiation. _The Scientific American_ is in the audience tonight. As is _The New York Times_. As is the _Harvard Crimson _reporter, Erica Lowenstein. Erica. Black-haired, gray-eyed Erica. Soft-lipped Erica. Warm-smiled Erica. The woman of my dreams and then some. She's looking at me today, and I think I might have figured out the solution to happiness.

I smirk, realizing that soon they'll understand how damn smart I really am. I flip the switch. Any second now, the Zeta Beam will launch into the voltage detector, causing off-the-chart energy readings. Soon, I will power the world.

I hear a scream. Turning around, I see Jason standing in front of Erica. The Zeta Beam moved erratically. Something must have gone wrong with the shielding. And I can barely contain my anger, as I watch the events unfold. I see him there, a horrifically resplendent shade of gold. His beauty's almost blinding, and it's at that moment I know I hate him.

I turn the Zeta Beam off, but it doesn't matter. It's far too late. I've turned my former college buddy Jason into a super hero. I've turned him into my arch-nemesis. I've turned him into Core-Fire. And the worst part of it all? Erica's not looking at me with those soft gray eyes any longer. She's looking at _him._

The damn pygmie's plumbing ever-deeper into my psyche. I can feel his sheer glee at picking my brain apart, the glee he holds at seeing the various components that must combine to form a true genius. I realize I'm steadily collapsing to the floor. I think back on my life, think back to any thought I could use against this damn thought-monger. That's when I hit upon the right one. I hit upon the one no man could stand up against.

It's another late Friday night at the lab. The rain is pouring down on the ceiling, as unrelentingly oppressive and eternal as my stream-of-consciousness. I've finally figured out a way to harness the Zeta Radiation, not through a beam but through a liquid. This mad substance I have truly _will_ save the world. A few drops of this could power New York City for a year.

The temperature levels are rising. I notice a tiny crack in the glass, a tiny crack that grows into a large crack, which breaks into massive hole. That red liquid-the radiation which had subsumed my entire life, taking every chance at being normal I had and spitting it out-now engulfs my body. There is an explosion and the red streaks across my eyes like splashes of blood. I hear a thousand explosions coming from a hundred directions. It's like every war movie anyone's ever created, but less bearable. I'm getting scorched by water. I'm drowning in fire.

And then it stops. I open my eyes and see the pygmie, his crackling white eyes growing into a duller, gray shade. He has stopped chanting. As calmly as I can, I walk over to him. Grabbing him by the hair, I show my conquest to the audience. My arm is held out, and I'm more august than the finest of emperors. I'm a winner, and I know it. Still, there's that silence for a moment, the sort of silence you worry might get you killed. Then comes the roar. That fulfilling, all-encompassing cheer that comes from that belly of the beast most men call a crowd.

I smile. It's nice to realize you're invincible.


End file.
